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AUTHOR: 


MACNAGHTEN 
HUGH  VIBART 


> 


TITLE: 


THE  STORY  OF 
CATTULLUS 


PLACE: 


LONDON 


DA  TE : 


1899 


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Mncnn-hton,   Hu-hVibart, 

London,   Duclnrorth.   loog      ^ ^^  ""cnaghton  ... 

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THE  LIBRARIES 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


THE 


STORY   OF    CATULLUS 


BY 


HUGH     MACNAGHTEN 


\  ^ 


rORMERLY  FELLOW  OF  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 


ASSISTANT  MASTER  AT  ETON  COLLEGE 


jlll  rights  reserved 


LONDON 

DUCKfFOIirH   and    CO. 

3    HENRIETTA   STREET,  W.C. 

1899 


n 


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Edinburgh  :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 


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TO 

HENRY    ELFORD    LUXMOORE 

AND 

JOHN    FOSTER    GRACE 

I   OFFER 

WITH    AFFECTION    AND    GRATITUDE 

THESE   VERSIONS   OF 

CATULLUS 


362767 


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PREFACE 

Who  will  read  this  book  ?  A  scholar  here 
and  there,  I  dare  to  hope,  who  would  not 
willingly  pass  by  anything  that  concerns 
Catullus,  a  barrister,  a  business-man  (who 
knows  ?),  if,  as  I  believe,  there  are  still  some 
who  find,  after  a  long  day's  work,  their  best 
refreshment  in  the  classics. 

Perhaps  even  an  Eton  boy  who  has  read 
Catullus  at  school,  and  is  a  little  ashamed  at 
having  cared  so  much  for  any  part  of  his 
work,  or  the  sister  of  an  Eton  boy,  if  I  may 
speak  out  all  my  dreams,  who  has  read  in 
Tennyson  of  the  *  tenderest  of  Roman  poets,' 
and  would  learn  something  which  her  brother 
refuses  to  tell  of  that  Catullus  '  whose  dead 
songster  never  dies.'     May  it  be  so !     And 

vu 


hi!  i 


if  f 


viii      THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

if  not,  it  is  something  only  to  have  dreamed 
it,  and  still  more  to  know  that  the  leisure 
moments  of  the  last  five  years  which  have 
been  given  to  Catullus  have  been  their  own 
exceeding  rich  reward.  But  what  will  my 
publishers  say  ? 

There  remains  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude  to 
discharge.  Every  modern  editor  of  the 
classics  enters  upon  a  rich  inheritance  in  the 
labours  of  his  predecessors :  it  is  a  pleasure 
even  to  acknowledge  what  one  cannot  hope 
to  repay.  My  special  thanks  are  due  to  the 
Provost  of  Eton  who  first  taught  me  to  love 
Catullus ;  to  Munro,  the  greatest  of  English 
scholars;  to  Professor  Ellis,  whose  edition  of 
the  poet  will  always  remain  unrivalled;  to 
Professor  Tyrrell  for  his  delightful  essay  on 
Catullus  among  the  Latin  poets,  and  for  his 
brilliant  sketch  of  Marcus  Caclius  Rufus  in 
'The  Correspondence  of  Cicero';  to  Mackail's 
Latin  Literature ;  to  the  German  editions  of 
Schmidt  and   Riese;    to  Professors  Merrill 


PREFACE 


IX 


and  Simpson ;  above  all,  to  the  Vice-Provost 
of  Eton  for  his  kindness  in  reading  through 
the  proofs,  and  for  many  corrections  and 
suggestions,  to  my  friend  and  colleague 
Mr.  A.  B.  Ramsay  for  invaluable  help  and 
criticism,  and  to  my  sisters  for  the  en- 
couragement and  the  sympathy  which  only 
sisters  can  give. 


t 

I 

i 


INDEX  OF  POEMS  TRANSLATED 


^— < 

POEM 

PAGE 

POEM 

PAGE 

I.        .          .          .      i6 

LVIII. 

27 

II. 

H 

LXI. 

58 

III. 

15 

LXV. 

43 

V. 

13 

CXX. 

21 

f*^ 

VII. 

II 

Lxxn. 

22 

f 

VIII. 

IX. 

XI. 

XXXI. 

34 
17 
75 
47 

LXXIII. 

LXXV. 

LXXVI. 

LXXVII. 

25 
23 

39 
25 

' 

XXXiV. 

XXXVIII. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

ig 
.     42 

.     71 

•     45 
.     12 

.     66 

Lxxxn. 

LXXXIV. 

LXXXV. 

LXXXVII. 

XCIII. 

XCVI. 

■     24 

•  38 
.     36 

•  79 
.     69 

•  55 

<r- 

L. 

LI. 

LI^. 

•  51 

•  9 
II 

CI. 

CVII. 

CIX. 

•  50 

•  33 
.     20 

LII. 

.     53 

^ri 

;    t 


xi 


i 


!i 


-■♦ 


^ 


THE  STORY   OF  CATULLUS 

Verona  has  always  been  a  famous  city.     It 
is  well  known  in  modern  Italian  history  as  a 
fortress  of  the  great  Austrian  Quadrilateral, 
and  in    the  struggle  between    Guelphs  and 
Ghibellines  it  played  no  unimportant  part. 
Nor  has  it  lacked  distinction  in  the  arts  of 
peace.       The    church    of   San    Zenone,   the 
tomb  of  Can  Grande  and  his  successors,  the 
market-place  unequalled  in  all  Italy,  and  the 
innumerable  Renaissance  palaces,  all  combine 
to   give   to   the  birthplace   of   Romeo  and 
Juliet  a  charm  which  few  other  cities  possess. 
And  even  in  Roman  days  it  had  a  clear  title 
to  fame.    For  here  in  the  year  84  b.c,  when 
the  Republic    was    already    tottering    to  its 
fall,  was  born  Gaius  Valerius  Catullus,  the 
tenderest  and  fiercest   of  all    Italian  poets. 


2        THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Verona  was  a  flourishing  city  at  that  time, 
and  the  father  of  Catullus  was  not  only  a 
man  of  wealth  and  importance  In  his  native 
town,  but  also  a  friend,  perhaps  an  intimate 
friend,  of  Gaius  Julius  Caesar  himself.   Little 
though  the  Romans  cared  for  scenery,  the 
boy  Catullus  can  hardly  have  failed  to  love 
the  beautiful  city  with  the  mountains  beyond 
and  the  noble   river  sweeping  with  a  great 
curve   through    the    heart   of  it ;    but   the 
hopes  of  all  men  of  genius  and  ambition 
were  centred  in  Rome,  and  Catullus  fixed 
on  the  capital  as  his  residence  as  soon  as 
he   was   of  an   age   to   choose  for  himself. 
Possibly  his  brother  may  already  have  left 
his  father's  house,  and  this  may  have  influ- 
enced  the  young  poet  in  his  decision.     Of 
the  early  years  at  Verona  no  record  remains  ; 
but  we  may  infer  from  the  later  poems  that 
the  two   brothers    loved   each   other    from 
childhood,  and  shared  the  same  hopes  and 
ambitions.     Of  his  father  and  his  mother, 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS         3 

strangely  enough,  Catullus   has   nothing  to 
say  ;   but  it  is  possible  that  the  poet's  fierce 
attacks  on  Julius  Caesar,  his  father's  friend, 
imply  some  lack  of  sympathy  between  father 
and  son.     In  any  case,  whatever  the  reason, 
Catullus   left  Verona   and  came  to  Rome. 
If,  as  seems  probable,  this  was  in  the  year 
62  B.C.,  Cicero,  who  had  saved  Rome  from 
Catilinfe   only  a  few  months  before,  was  at 
the   height,  of  his   fame  ;    Caesar,  plunged 
apparently  beyond  redemption  in  debt,  was  at 
the  same  time  the  most  popular  man  in  Rome, 
soon  to  be  appointed  Pontifex  Maximus  in 
spite  of  his  avowed  scepticism  ;  Lucretius 
the   poet  was  as  yet  unknown,  though  ten 
years  older  than  Catullus  ;  Virgil  was  a  child 
of  eight,  Horace  a  baby  of  three.    Two  other 
men,  less  famous,  but  more  intimately  con- 
nected with  Catullus,  deserve  mention  here : 
Calvus,  orator  and  poet,  who  was  two  years 
'  younger  than  his  friend  Catullus,  and  Marcus 
Caellus  Rufus,  who,  curiously  enough,  was 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


born  the  same  day  of  the  same  year  as 
Calvus,  and,  like  him,  was  the  dear  friend  of 
our  poet  until  the  treachery  of  Rufus  turned 
friendship  into  hate. 

Women  at  this  time  had  begun  to  play  an 
important  part  at  Rome,  and  to  exercise  a 
wider  influence  on  politics  and  society,  but 
the  great  Roman  ladies  did  not  for  the  most 
part  use  their  influence  for  good  ;  indeed, 
women  and  men  seem  to  have  vied  with 
each  other  in  shamelessness  in  that  strangely 
profligate  age.  It  was  to  a  city  seething  with 
intrigue  and  discontent,  where  unbridled 
passions  and  adulteries  were  commonplace, 
that  the  young  poet  came,  who,  though  he 
had  written  many  love  poems,  had  probably 
never  seriously  fallen  in  love.  How  long 
he  lived  in  Rome  before  the  tragedy  of  his 
life  began  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  much  that 
is  ignoble  and  shameful  in  his  writings 
should,  I  believe,  be  referred  to  the  first  year 
of  liberty,  when,  freed   from  the  restraints 


of  home,  he  took  his  share  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  great  city.     The  discussion  of  a  poet's 
vices  is  always  unprofitable,  yet  it  is  due  to 
Catullus  to  protest  against  the  view  which 
assigns  the  vilest  of  his  poems  to  the  last  years 
of  his  life.     Possibly  it  was  early  in  6i  b.c. 
that  Catullus  was  first  introduced  to  Clodia, 
then  in  the  full  beauty  of  her  womanhood. 
As  the  wife  of  Q^  Metellus  Celer,  consul- 
elect    in    6 1,    she   was   probably    the    most 
influential   woman  in  Rome  ;  and  Catullus, 
intoxicated  by  her  rank  and  beauty,  yielded 
without  a  struggle  to  the  fascination  of  her 
resistless  eyes.     The  poet  has  given  us  no 
details  of  her  face  or  form  :  it  is  enough  to 
know  what  he  felt  in  her  presence.     She  was 
a  goddess  for  him,  and  he  worshipped.     It 
is  hard  for  us  to  put  ourselves  in  Catullus' 
place,   to   realise  that  he  looked   upon   his 
^    love  as  white  and  innocent,  so  that  he  could 
compare  his  mistress  to  Laodamia,  the  type 
of  pure  womanhood,  though  Clodia  came  to 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


him  from  the  arms  of  her  rightful  husband. 
But  Catullus  himself  glories  in  this  very  fact, 
unconscious  of  his  shame  ;  and  if  we  are  to 
understand  his  life  we  must  accept  the 
startling  truth  that  he  regarded  himself  as 
Clodia's  true  husband,  and  believed  that  his 
conduct  to  her  had  been  free  from  all 
reproach  and  stain.  The  wrong  done  to  the 
*  dolt '  husband  he  appears  never  to  have 
considered  at  all.  That  Catullus  sinned, 
judged  even  by  the  lax  standard  of  his  own 
day,  needs  no  proof;  it  is  not  so  obvious, 
but  it  is  not  less  true,  that  he  lived  and  died 
unconscious  of  his  guilt.  And  this,  at  least, 
may  be  urged  in  his  excuse :  if  Catullus  had 
loved  Clodia  lightly,  and  as  lightly  left  her 
to  marry  some  one  else,  Roman  society 
would  have  approved.  When  Marcus  Caelius 
Rufus  fell  in  love  with  Clodia,  and  then 
wearied  of  her,  Cicero  enlarged  on  the 
inevitable  wild  oats  theory,  and  every  one 
(except  Clodia)  seems  to  have  been  satisfied ; 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS         7 

but   the  sorrow   of  Catullus   was   not   less 
violent   than   his    passion,   and    may    have 
helped  to  hasten  his  untimely   death.     No 
one  has  ever  accused  him  of  being  a  hypo- 
crite;   yet  in  his  passionate  appeal  to  the 
gods,  when  he  reviews  his  past  life,  an  appeal 
which  must  carry  conviction  to  every  un- 
prejudiced heart,  he  speaks  of  loyal  service 
and  unsullied  faith,  and  because  of  these  he 
claims  heavenly  pity  as  his  right.     Our  pity, 
too,  he   can  surely   claim  :  the  young,  im- 
pressionable  poet  in  his  twenty-third  year 
was  ill-matched  against  the  most  brilliant  and 
beautiful  woman  in  Rome,  whose  infinite  wit 
and  variety  age  could  not  wither  nor  custom 
stale.       Surely   never    were    more   hopeless 
odds.     It  would  need  a  strong  character  to 
resist  temptation  such  as  this,  and  Catullus 
was  very  human,  very  ready  to  love  or  hate, 
but  little  able  to  resist  or  endure. 

We   do   not   know  under  what   circum- 
stances he  was  introduced  to  Clodia,  but  we 


8         THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

have  the  first  poem  which  he  wrote  to  her  in 
the  rapture  of  his  early  love,  a  translation 
from  Sappho.  There  is,  one  cannot  help 
feeling,  a  bathos  in  this  :  was  the  young 
lover  so  incapable  of  finding  words  of  his 
own  to  give  expression  to  his  passion  that 
he  was  driven  to  take  refuge  in  a  version 
of  a  poem  written  by  a  Greek  poetess  to 
a  girl?  It  may  indeed  be  urged  that  the 
language  of  great  poets  is  eternally  true.  If 
we  turn  to  Shakespeare,  Troilus  expecting 
Cressida  says  : 

'  My  heart  beats  quicker  than  a  feverous  pulse : 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose. 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  encountering 
The  eye  of  majesty.' 

When  Cressida  comes  to  him  he  can   only 
say  : 

*  You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words,  lady,' 


and  Catullus,  or  rather  Sappho  before  him. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS         9 

says  much  the  same.  But  this  explanation 
may  be  only  part  of  the  truth.  What  if 
Catullus  had  seen  Clodia,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  at  first  sight,  and  wished  to  convey 
his  secret  to  her  in  a  way  which  she  could 
hardly  misunderstand,  if  she  cared  for  him, 
and  yet  could  not  resent  if,  after  all,  his  hopes 
were  vain  ?  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  a  trans- 
lation would  be  sufficient  disguise,  and  this 
poem  breathes  too  rapturous  a  devotion  to  be 
mistaken  by  Clodia,  if  she  shared  at  all  the 
feelings  of  him  who  wished  to  be  her  poet. 
The  poem,  as  we  have  it,  is  a  mere  frag- 
ment :  only  three  stanzas  remain,  and  of  the 
second  stanza  some  words  are  lost.  This  is  the 
first  message  which  some  friend  of  Catullus 
and  Clodia  carried  from  him  to  her : 

LI. 

He  is  the  peer  of  gods  for  me, 
Victor  of  gods,  if  that  may  be. 
Who  face  to  face  at  whiles  on  thee 
May  gaze  and  hear 


10       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS        ii 


Hi 


Hi 


Thy  laughter  sweet :  ah  !  Lesbia  thence 
(Unhappy  me !)  fails  every  sense, 
Fails  voice  and  art,  for  evidence 
That  thou  art  near. 

My  tongue  is  numb :  the  fever  flies 
From  limb  to  limb :  sounds  tinkling  rise 
Within  my  brain :  on  both  my  eyes 
The  night  falls  sheer. 

Catullus  speaks  of  Lesbia  in  the  second 
stanza,  though  the  word  does  not  occur  in 
Sappho's  poem  ;  but  the  original  was  written 
to  a  Lesbian  girl,  and  the  name  is  thus  sug- 
gested to  Catullus,  who  adopts  it  once  and 
for  all.  Clodia  henceforth  is  Lesbia  to 
him. 

In  the  original  a  fourth  stanza  follows  the 
other  three,  but  it  is  evidently  out  of  place, 
for  it  makes  havoc  of  the  context,  and  gives 
a  simple  and  convincing  sense  if  taken  by 
itself : 


LI. 


! 


In  idleness,  Catullus,  hurt  you  cherished, 
Long  idleness  to  wanton  riot  grown  : 
Through   idleness   aforetime    kings   have 

perished 
With  all  the  pomp  of  cities  overthrown. 

In  the  original  this  stanza  is  in  the  same 
metre  as  the  other  three,  hence  the  waif  has 
been  attached  to  them. 

For  the  first  two  years  the  course  of  love 
ran  smooth,  and  lyric  after  lyric  bore  witness 
to  the  poet's  happiness. 

'As  many  kisses  as  be  stars  in  heaven' 

is  his  answer  to  Lesbia,  who  has  asked  what 
number  will  content  him. 

VII. 

You  ask  how  many  kisses  can  fulfil 
Your  kisses,  Lesbia,  or  exceed  my  will. 
As  many  grains  as  are  of  Libyan  sand 
By  rich  Cyrene  in  the  silphium  land 


12       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


Between  Jove's  sultry  oracle  and  where 
Stands  ancient  Battus'  sacred  sepulchre : 
Or  many  as  the  stars  whose  light  discovers, 
When  night  is  hushed,  the  stealthy  tryst  of 

lovers  : 
So  many  of  your  kisses  can  fulfil 
Love-rapt  Catullus  or  exceed  his  will, 
Beyond  the  count  of  jealous  tongues  to  tell 
Or  prying  eyes  to  blight  with  envious  spell. 

The  next  is  an  earlier  poem,  not  addressed 
to  Lesbia,  but  a  place  may  be  found  for  it 
here  : 

XLVIII. 

If  ever  one  should  grant  me  this 

Still  still  your  honeyed  eyes  to  kiss, 

I  'd  kiss  a  million  times,  and  still 

Still  ask,  nor  hope  to  have  my  fill. 

Though  kisses  one  for  every  ear 

Of  sunny  corn  were  garnered  here.  ^ 

Or  again,  when  he  would  prove  to  Lesbia 
that  life  is  worth  living  for  lovers  alone : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       13 


V. 


Ljve  we  to  love,  my  Lesbia ;  then 

All  talk  of  elder,  sourer  men 

We  '11  value  at  a  single  mite. 

Suns  set  to  rise  :  when  sets  the  day 

For  us  but  once  with  hasty  ray. 

We  sleep,  and  all  is  endless  night. 

A  thousand  kisses,  then  five  score. 

Another  thousand,  a  hundred  more. 

Then  one  for  each  you  gave  before; 

Then,  as  the  many  thousands  grow. 

We'll  wreck  the  counting  lest  we  know. 

Or  lest  an  evil  eye  prevail 

Through  knowledge  of  the  kisses'  talc. 

But  the  two  poems  on  Lesbia's  sparrow  are 
perhaps  the  best  known  of  all.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  compare  the  first  of  these  with  a 
passage  in  %omeo  and  Juliet : 

Jul.  ''Tis  almost  morning  :  I  would  have  thee 
gone : 

And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird; 


14       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back 

again. 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Rom,  I  would  I  were  thy  bird  ! 

Jul.   Sweet,  so  would  L' 

Whereas  Catullus  does  not  wish  that  he  were 
Lesbia's  sparrow,  but  that  he  might  play  with 
it  as  Lesbia  loves  to  play. 


11. 


Sparrow,  the  plaything  of  my  fair, 
Whom  in  her  lap  she  loves  to  bear, 
Or  with  raised  finger-tip  excites 
Till  wickedly  he  pecks  and  bites ; 
When  the  bright  lady  of  my  yearning 
To  some  dear  dainty  play  is  turning. 
Sweet  solace  for  love's  pain,  I  trow, 
Or  in  the  lull  of  passion's  glow, 
Oh  !  might  I  play  with  you  as  she. 
And  my  heart's  burden  lighter  be. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS        15 

The  second  lyric,  that  mourns  the  sparrow's 
death,  is  still  more  beautiful : 


III. 

Oh  !  Loves  and  Cupids  make  lament ; 
Men  of  the  lovelier  lives  consent. 
Mourn  for  my  lady's  sparrow  fled. 
My  lady's  playmate  sparrow  dead. 
Her  joy  beyond  the  light  of  eyes, 
So  honey -sweet  was  he  and  wise 
To  know  her  as  a  girl  her  mother. 
He  would  not  leave  her  for  another. 
Would  on  her  lap  be  still  astir 
And  still  be  chirping  but  for  her. 
Now  fares  he  thither  whence  they  say 
None  e'er  retraced  the  darkling  way. 
Cursed  shades,  I  curse  you  ravening 
From  Orcus  for  each  dainty  thing  : 
The  dainty  pet  ye  ravished  here  ! 
Ah,  cruel  deed  !  ah,  birdie  dear ! 
For  thee  to-day  with  flushing  eyes 
And  heavy  lids  my  darling  cries. 


i6      THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Probably  one  volume  of  poems  was  pub- 
lished by  Catullus  under  the  title  of  The 
Sparrow  :  Lesbia  must  have  inspired  all  or 
most  of  these.  Another  volume  was  dedi- 
cated to  a  friend,  Cornelius  Nepos,  an  ami- 
able man,  but  the  most  unsympathetic  and 
unimaginative  of  historians.  If  the  dedication 
seems  a  little  commonplace  now,  it  is  only 
because  it  has  been  so  often  imitated. 

I. 

So  new,  so  smooth,  my  dainty  book, 
A  gift  for  whom }     Cornelius,  look, 
'Tis  yours ;  for  you  in  early  days 
Were  ever  wont  my  rhymes  to  praise. 
While  setting  forth  in  volumes  three, 
First  of  our  race,  all  history. 
O  heavens !  the  lore,  the  labour  there ! 
Therefore  the  book,  how  slight  soe'er 
It  be,  be  yours :  nor,  guardian  Muse, 
Do  thou  unaging  age  refuse. 

There  is  some  doubt  as  to  the  reading  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       17 

last  two  lines ;  by  a  very  slight  change  we 
get  the  meaning  : 

Your  name  shall  give 
The  right  unagingly  to  live. 
This  has  more  point,  but  the  sudden  invoca- 
tion of  the  Muse  is  not  unnatural,  and  no 
change  is  really  necessary. 

Catullus,  as  we  shall  see,  was  not  only  a 
true  lover  :  he  was  also  a  true  friend.  And 
he  looks  forward  to  the  home-coming  of 
Veranius  with  something  of  the  rapture 
which  the  thought  of  Lesbia  inspires. 

IX. 

Is  it  you,  my  friend  of  friends,  who  come 
Dearer  to  me  than  a  million  others, 
Veranius,  home  to  your  hearth  and  home, 
The  aged  mother,  the  loving  brothers  ? 
You  have  come  !  ah,  joy,  it  is  well,  it  is  well ! 
I  shall  see  you  safe,  I  shall  hear  you  tell 
(You  best  know  how)  of  Hiberian  races 
And  the  deeds  they  do,  and  the  storied  places, 


B 


1 8       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

And  drawing  your  neck  to  my  own  the  while, 
I  shall  kiss  the  face  and  the  eyes  that  smile. 
Oh !  hearts  that  are  happy  above  the  rest, 
Is  any  so  happy  as  I,  so  blest  ? 

In  striking  contrast  to  these  light  themes 
and  dainty  songs  follows  the  noble  ode  to 
Diana,  written  by  Catullus  to  be  sung  by  girls 
and  boys.  It  has  the  charm,  which  no  poem 
of  Catullus  lacks,  of  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness, but  it  has  also  a  dignity  and  religious 
feeling  which  enshrine  it  apart  from  all  the 
rest.  The  first  and  last  stanzas  are  sung 
by  the  boys  and  girls  together,  the  second 
and  third  probably  by  the  boys  alone,  and 
the  fourth  and  fifth  by  the  girls. 

XXXIV. 

In  Dian's  hand  are  we 
Girls  and  boys  fancy-free  : 
Fancy-free  raise  acclaim. 
Boys  and  girls,  to  Dian's  name. 


)\ 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS  S    19 

Daughter  of  Lato*s  love. 
High  child  of  highest  Jove, 
Whom  she  that  bore  thee  laid 
Under  Delos'  olive  shade. 

To  hold  in  thy  demesne 
Mountain  and  forest  green, 
Where  nestle  glades  unseen. 
Where  the  rivers  thunder,  Queen. 

Hailed  thou  in  travail-hour 
Juno,  light-giving  power. 
Throned  at  the  meeting  ways, 
Hailed  the  Moon  with  borrowed  rays. 

Thou,  as  each  month  thy  sphere 
Measures  the  gliding  year, 
Goddess,  with  goodly  store 
Fillest  full  the  farmer's  floor. 

Named  here  as  is  thy  will. 
Hallowed  be  thou,  and  still 
Blessed  as  aforetime  be 
Sons  of  Romulus  by  thee. 


I 


20       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

In  the  year  59  came  the  change.  Clodia's 
husband,  Quintus  Metellus,  died,  and  Clodia, 
who  had  grown  tired  of  him  long  ago,  had 
perhaps  begun  already  to  weary  of  Catullus. 
Suspicion  at  least  of  unfaithfulness  must 
have  prompted  the  lines  in  which  Catullus 
still  fondly  prays  for  a  lifetime  consecrated 
to  a  love  as  pure  and  noble  as  that  which 
binds  two  friends  together. 

cix. 
A  happy  love,  my  life,  your  lips  foreshow 
For  you  and  me  a  love  without  an  end — 
Oh !  gods  above  me,  may  the  truth  be  so, 
>^  And  all  she  vows  may  all  her  heart  intend  ! 
Then  should  one  love  fulfil  the  years,  and 

know 
The  sacred  union  linking  friend  to  friend. 

Clodia  seems  indeed  at  one  time  to  have 
promised  to  marry  the  poet,  or  at  least  to 
have  wished  that  she  were  free  to  do  so; 


w 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       21 

but  Catullus  soon  had  reason   to   mistrust 

* 

her  promises. 

LXX. 

None  else  but  me,  my  lady  vows  'tis  true. 
None   else  for   her   though  Jove   himself 

should  sue  ; 
She  vows,  a  woman  to  her  lover :  grave  / 
Such   words   upon  the  wind   and   fleeting 

wave  ! 

Again  we  are  reminded  of  Shakespeare  in 
Xroilus  and  Cressida : 

'  What  says  she  there  .? 
Words,   words,   mere   words,    no   matter 
from  the  heart.' 

Then,  as  Troilus  tears  the  letter — 

*  Go  wind  to  wind,  there  turn  and  change 
together. 
My  love  with  words  and  errors  still  she 
feeds.' 


/ 


22       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

And  soon  the  faithlessness  is  all  too  clearly 
proved.  Catullus  cannot  bless  her,  nor  pray 
for  her,  but,  alas  !  he  does  not  love  her  less. 


LXXII. 

*  Catullus  only,'  Lesbia,  once  you  said, 
Not  Jove  himself  would  please  you  in  my 

stead. 
Sire's  love  to  son  or  daughter's  husband 

then 
I  gave  you,  not  the  common  love  of  men. 
I  know  you  now,  the  fiercer  burns  my  flame. 
Yet  lighter,  lower,  far  I  prize  your  fame. 
You  question  how  ?  so  wronged,  a  lover's 

mind 
Kindles  perforce  the  more,  but  grows  less 

kind. 

There  is  something  infinitely  pathetic  about 
this  poem ;  for  it  proves  that  Catullus 
was  ready  to  give  to  Lesbia  the  chivalrous 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       23 

love,  whose  first  aim  is  not  the  selfish  satis- 
faction of  desire,  but  the  wish  that  it  may 
be  well  with   the   loved   one  for  her   own 
sake.     And  he  feels  that  he  has  fallen  from 
this  high  ideal,  and  declined  to  the  lower 
level  of  sensual  passion  ;  he  is  beginning  to 
realise  that   the   best   gift  which  a  woman 
might  have  given,  and  which  alone  could 
have  brought  him  real  happiness,  has  been 
by  Lesbia's  sinning  irrecoverably  lost.     The 
next  poem  repeats  the  same  thought. 


LXXV. 


Lesbia,  to  this  your  sin  has  brought  my  mind. 
Lost  in  its  own  devotion,  lost  and  blind ;      }f 
I  cannot  bless  you,  golden  though  you  prove. 
Though  you  do  anything,  I  still  must  love. 

The  short  poem  which  follows  is  addressed 
to  Quintius,  possibly  a  fellow-townsman  of 
Catullus,  who  is  threatening  his  happiness. 


24       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       25 


i! 


LXXXII. 

If  you  would  have  Catullus  be  your  debtor 

for  the  light, 
The  light  of  eyes,  or  if  there  be  a  dearer 

thing  than  sight, 
Ah  !  Quintius,  spare  to  rob  your  friend  of 

one  far  dearer  prize 
Than  light  of  eyes,  or  if  there  be  a  dearer 

light  than  eyes. 

Probably  there  were  many  rivals  now: 
certainly  there  was  one  who  gave  Catullus 
more  pain  than  all  the  rest.  For  Clodia 
had  begun  to  notice  Marcus  Caelius  Rufus, 
the.  poet's  friend,  who  attracted  her  not  only 
as  a  young  man  of  exceptional  promise  and 
headstrong  ambition,  but  also  as  the  best 
dancer  in  Rome.  And  so  in  one  moment 
Catullus  lost  his  mistress  and  his  friend. 
On  that  friend  he  turned  with  an  exceeding 
bitter   cry,  which   might   have   given  even 


Rufus  pause,  reckless  and  unprincipled  as  he 
was,  for  all  his  superficial  attractiveness. 


LXXVII. 


Rufus,  the  friend  I  trusted  so  for  naught — 
For  naught  ?  ah  !  no,  for  shame  that  leaves 

me  sad  ; 
You  the  dark  thief  to  sear  my  soul  who 

wrought 
And  reft  me,  reft  of  all  the  joys  I  had. 
You  the  fell  poison  of  my  happy  day, 
You,  you  upon  whose  breast  my  friendship 

lay. 

Another  poem,  probably  due  to  the  treachery 
and  ingratitude  of  the  same  friend,  belongs 
to  this  time  : 

LXXIII. 

Believe  no  more  that  service  gains  a  friend, 
Nor  dream  that  any  man  may  faithful  be. 
Has  love  reward  ?  is  gratitude  the  end  ? 


26       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

"^  Nay,  hurt  and  harm— at  least  'tis  so  for  me, 
Most  harried  by  his  hate  who  once  would 
caU 

Me,  me  his  only  friend,  his  own,  his  all. 

Rufus  indeed  would  not  hear,  but  'The 
gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices  make 
instruments  to  plague  us/  and  so  a  few  years 
afterwards  Rufus  was  brought  to  trial  on  a 
charge  of  poisoning,  by  Clodia's  latest  victim, 
a  boy,  who  to  prove  his  loyalty  to  his  mis- 
tress endeavoured  to  ruin  the  former  lover. 
Rufus,  it  is  true,  defended  by  Cicero,  was 
acquitted,  but  during  that  anxious  time,  if 
the  words  of  Catullus,  '  You  the  fell  poison 
of  my  happy  day,'  were  not  quite  forgotten, 
he  must  have  felt  that  there  was  a  charge 
of  poisoning  to  which  he  could  hardly  plead 
*  not  guilty.' 

Yet  Catullus  seems  to  have  forgiven  him 
at  last :  no  one  could  help  forgiving  Rufus. 
And  in  proof  of  forgiveness  or  forgetfulness 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       27 

it  is  to  Caelius  Rufus  that  a  later  poem 
is  dedicated,  in  which  the  poet  mourns  over 
Lesbia's  final  degradation : 

LVIII. 

The  peerless  Lesbia,  Caelius,  Lesbia  mine, 
Lesbia  the  peerless,  whom  Catullus'  heart 
Dearer  than  self  and  kin  did  once  enshrine. 
Now  in  the  streets  and  alleys  plays  her  part 
And  snares  the  noble  sons  of  Remus'  line. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  Shakespeare's 
record  of  his  own  love  and  friendship  recalls, 
if  we  may  trust  the  sonnets,  in  almost  every 
particular  the  experience  of  Catullus.  '  There 
can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  in  the  early 
days  of  his  relation  with  the  young  maid-of- 
honour,  Shakespeare  felt  himself  a  favourite 
of  fortune,  intoxicated  with  love  and  happi- 
ness, exalted  above  his  station,  honoured  and 
enriched.'  So  writes  Dr.  George  Brandes  in 
his   critical   study  of  Shakespeare,  and    no 


28       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

words  could  better  explain  one  aspect  of  the 
love  of  Catullus  for  Clodia. 

'  She  must  have  brought  a  breath  from  a 
higher  world,  an  aroma  of  aristocratic  woman- 
hood into  his  life.     He  must  have  admired 
her  wit,  her  presence  of  mind,  and  her  dar- 
ing, her  capricious  fancy,  and  her  quickness 
of  retort.     He  must  have  studied,  enjoyed, 
and  adored  in  her — and  that  in  the  closest 
intimacy — the  well-bred   ease,   the  sportive 
coquetry,  the  security,  elegance,  and  gaiety 
of  the  emancipated  lady.'     Here  again  the 
same  words  might  be  used  without  a  single 
change   to   describe    the    relations    between 
Clodia   and   Catullus.       We   may  even  go 
further  than  this,  and  contrast  or  compare  in 
face  as  well  as  in  character  the  two  women 
loved  by  the  two  poets.     With  all  deference 
to   Mr.   Sidney  Lee,  it  has,  I  think,  been 
"^  proved  that  Shakespeare's  love,  the  dark  lady 
of  the   sonnets,    was    Mary    Fitton,   maid- 
of-honour  to  Queen  Elizabeth.     Her  eyes 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       29 

we  know  well  from  Shakespeare's  description, 
'my  mistress'  eyes  are  raven  black' ;  her  hair, 
too,  he  tells  us,  is  black.     She  is  not  beauti- 
ful, yet  '  beauty  should  look  so,'  and  though 
*  music  hath  a  more  pleasing   sound '  than 
her  voice,  yet  *I  love  to  hear  her  speak.' 
Further,  Dr.  Brandes  tells  us,   'there  still 
exists  on  the  monument  of  Mary  Fitton's 
mother  in  Gawsworth  Church,  in  Cheshire,  a 
highly  coloured  bust  of  Mary  Fitton  herself. 
The  colours  are  so  well  preserved  that  it  is 
clear  she  must  have  been  a  marked  brunette.' 
Of  Clodia  we  know  fewer  particulars,  partly, 
perhaps,  because  she  was  really  beautiful,  and 
a  pretty  woman  is  more  easily  described  than 
one  who  is  lovely,  and  partly  because  Catullus 
at  twenty-three  was  too  young  to  see  any 
imperfection  in  a  mistress  ten  years  older 
than  himself,  whereas  Shakespeare  at  the  age 
of  thirty-three  was  able  calmly  to  criticise  j|)f 
while  he  loved  the  maid-of-honour  of  nine- 
teen.    Catullus   only   speaks   of   Clodia   as 


f 


\ 


■  i 

I 


30       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 
perfect  loveliness;  and   calJs   her  his  white 
goddess.     Her  enemies  have  told  us  of  her 
burning  eyes.      An  unfriendly  critic  might 

borrow  two  of  Shakespeare's  lines  to  describe 
her: 

'  A  whitcly  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow, 
With  two  pitch  balls  stuck  in  her  face  for 
eyes.* 

The  outward   circumstances  of  the  two 
ladies'   lives    are   very   similar:    each   held 
a  high  position,  each  was  married,  and  each 
was  false,  not  only  to  her  husband,  but  to  her 
lover.     Marcus  Caelius  Rufus,  the  friend  of 
Catullus  and  the  lover  of  Clodia,  finds  his 
counterpart  in  William  Herbert,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  the  patron  and  friend  of 
Shakespeare,  and  his  successful  rival  for  the 
love  of  Mary  Fitton.     A  time  came  to  both 
poets  when  their  eyes  were  opened  and  each 
recognised  the  faithlessness  of  his  mistress. 
Again  the  parallel  is  interesting.    Catullus  is 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS        31 

ready  to  pardon  infidelities  if  they  are  but  few 
and  more  or  less  concealed  :  and  Shakespeare 
means  much  the  same  when  he  writes  : 

'  Tell  me  thou  lov'st  elsewhere  :  but  in  my 
sight, 
Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  thine  eye  aside.' 

But  when  the  breach  was  complete  and  each 
found  himself  betrayed  by  his  friend,  while 
Shakespeare  could  forgive  at  once  : 

'  I  do  forgive  thy  robbery,  gentle  thief. 
Although  thou  steal  thee  all  my  poverty,' 

Catullus  is  wounded  to  the  heart.  It  is  true 
that  before  many  years  were  passed  he  too 
came  to  realise  that  there  was  some  excuse 
even  for  the  friend  who  had  betrayed  him, 
when  Clodia  by  her  continued  infamies  had 
proved  him,  comparatively  speaking,  inno- 
cent. But  no  one  can  think  the  worse  of 
Catullus  for    the   bitterness   of  indignation 


( 


32       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

with  which  he  turned  upon  the  traitor  friend, 
and  no  one  will  envy  Shakespeare  the  facility 
with  which  he  forgave  his  patron  : 

^  Take  all  my  loves,  my  love,  yea,  take  them 

air— 

How  could  he  say  it — our  Shakespeare  ? 

Of  Rufus  something  remains  to  be  told. 
When  the  civil  war  broke  out  in  B.C.  50,  he 
was  found,  against  his  professed  political 
principles,  on  the  revolutionary  side,  pre- 
ferring the  prospect  of  success  with  Caesar 
to  the  approval  of  Cicero  and  Cato.  But  he 
soon  wearied  of  playing  a  secondary  part, 
and  in  the  mad  effort  to  outbid  and  super- 
sede Caesar  appealed  to  the  mob  to  follow 
him,  and  was  punished  for  his  foolish 
presumption  by  a  violent  death.  To  pity 
him  is  impossible  ;  but  it  is  difficult  not  to 
be  fascinated  by  him  even  now  in  spite  of  all 
his  faults,  when  we  read  the  letters  which  he 
wrote  to  Cicero.     During  his  whole  career 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       33 

he  was  popular  with  young  and  old  :  the 
gayest  of  the  gay,  yet  none  the  less  the 
trusted  friend  of  statesmen,  a  man  of  ex- 
travagant ambition,  yet  always  boyish  and 
irresistibly  attractive  to  the  last.  Is  it  strange 
if  men  loved  him  in  his  lifetime,  and  spoke 
gently  of  him  when  he  was  dead  ?  He  started 
with  all  the  chances,  and  almost  every  brilliant 
gift :  character  alone  was  lacking ;  and  want 
of  principle  ruined  him  even  in  that  un- 
principled age. 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  Lcsbia.  Doubt- 
less there  were  many  quarrels  and  reconcilia- 
tions between  the  two  lovers  in  the  year  59, 
and  Catullus  celebrates  his  restoration  to  his 
mistress'  fickle  favour  in  one  of  the  happiest 
of  his  poems : 


CVII. 


If  that  which  is  the  heart's  desire  be  told 
Unhoped  for,  it  is  joy  beyond  the  rest. 


34       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Therefore  I  count  it  joy  more  dear  than 

gold, 
That,  love,  you  tur#  again  and  make  me 

blest  ; 
You  turn,  my  heart's  desire  so  long  denied. 
Unasked,  unhoped  for.     Oh  !   the  white, 

bright  day ! 
What  happiness  in  all  the  world  beside 
Is  like  to  mine?     The  rapture  who  shall 

say? 

But  for  all  this  the  old  wounds  were  slow  to 
heal,  and  Lesbia  seems  at  last  hardly  to  have 
wished  to  hide  her  own  unfaithfulness.  And 
so  there  came  a  day  when  Catullus  struggled 
to  be  free : 

VIII. 

Catullus,  hapless  one,  be  schooled  at  last. 
Believe  your  eyes,  confess  the  past  is  past. 
So   bright,  so  white  the  suns  that  shone 

before ! 
Then  where  your  lady  led  you  followed  fain. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       35 

And  loved  her  as  none  else  shall  love  again. 
Ah  !  then  the  glad  surprises  and  the  play — 
You  wished  it  so,  nor  said  your  lady  nay. 
So  white,  so  bright  the  suns  that  shine  no 

more  ! 
Now  says  she  nay  :  ah !  weakling,  say  it  too. 
Nor  live  to  grieve,  nor  one  who  flies  pursue. 
But  stubborn  stand  and  bear  the  purpose 

through. 
Lady,  good-bye !  i  now  stands  Catullus  fast. 
Nor  woos  against  your  will  nor  mourns  the 

past : 
But  surely  you  shall  mourn  when  wooed  no  y 

more. 

I 

Poor  culprit!  ah,  the  days  for  you  in  store !  y^ 
Who  now  will  heed  your  beauty,  take  your 

hand? 
Whom  will  you  fondle  ?  who  will  call  you 

his? 
Whose  lips  will  you  devour  with  kiss  on 

kiss  ? 
But  thou,  Catullus,  stubborn,  steadfast  stand,     y 


36       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Catullus  if  he 
could  have  followed  his  own  judgment ;  but 
he  still  wavered,  and  at  last  revealed  the 
secret  of  his  sorrow  in  one  of  the  shortest 
but  most  pathetic  of  his  poems. 

LXXXV. 

SI,    I  hate  the  while  I  love  :  how  this  be  so, 
Perchance  you  seek  to  know  : 
Ah  !  there  I  am  not  wise, 
Only  'tis  so  I  feel  and  agonise. 

It  is  comparatively  a  slight  thing  when  love 
turns  to  hate  :  it  is  only  too  common  an 
experience,  and  the  mischief  is  not  fatal. 
But  to  hate  the  while  we  love,  to  love  and 
to  hate  the  same  person  at  the  same  time, 
this  way  madness  lies,  or  death.  Not  indeed 
for  such  men  as  Cloten  in  Shakespeare's 
Cymbeliney  though  he  says,  '  I  hate  and  love 
her  * ;  such  as  he  can  never  really  love  or  hate, 
and  he  is  safe  enough  unless  his  own  half- 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       37 

wit  ted  presumption  should  lead  him  to  his 
ruin.  But  Catullus  loves  and  hates  with  his 
whole  soul :  such  violent  passions  are  shatter- 
ing even  when  separate  and  distinct ;  but 
now  love  and  hate  are  centred  upon  Clodia, 
and  we  cannot  wonder  that  he  should  feel 
and  agonise.  It  is  the  same  with  Othello; 
because  he  hates  the  while  he  loves  we  have 
a  tragedy  instead  of  a  divorce  or  a  recon- 
ciliation. 'O  thou  weed!'  he  cries  in  his 
anguish,  *  who  art  so  lovely  fair  and  smelPst 
so  sweet  that  the  sense  aches  at  thee.  Would 
thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born ! '  and  lago  tells 
the  hateful  truth  when  he  whispers  to 
Othello : 


'  What  damned  minutes  tells  he  o'er 
Who  dotes,  yet  doubts,  suspects,  yet  strongly 
loves  ! ' 

But  to  love  and  hate  is  worse  than  to  dote 
yet  doubt,  and  Catullus,  who  still  loves  while 
he  hates  Clodia,  is  in  torment. 


38       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

The  poem  which  immediately  precedes 
this  confession  in  the  traditional  but  wholly 
unintelligible  arrangement  of  the  poet's 
works  offers  a  singular  contrast  to  it.  It 
is  perhaps  not  unnatural,  though  it  seems 
strangely  modern,  that  some  Romans  should 
have  been  guilty  of  the  vulgarity  of,  unduly 
aspirating  the  vowels;  but  that  the  chief 
offender  should  by  his  name,  Arrius,  irresist- 
ibly recall  his  modern  representative  is  almost 
too  good  to  be  true.  And  yet  this  is  what 
Catullus  tells  us  : 

LXXXIV. 

^Honours'  for  *  honours,'  Arrius  used  to  say, 
^Hambush'  for  'ambush,'  in  his  happy  way; 
Proud  lord  of  language,  and  more  lordly 

still 
Whene'er  he  gave  his  *  hambush '  with  a  will. 
Why  not  ?  his  uncle  Liber  did  the  same. 
Grandparents  both  and  mother  share  the 

blame. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       39 

Well,  he  was  sent  to  Syria,  ears  had  rest. 
By  softer  sounds  and  gentler  tones  caressed ; 
Our  fears  were  laid  aside,  such  words  were 

dead, 
When  on  a  day  there  came  the  tidings  dread, 
Arrius  is  here,  the  seas  to  Arrius  bow. 
And  once  Ionian  are  Hionian  now. 

To  the  same  period,  probably  to  the 
year  58,  belongs  that  passionate  appeal  to 
the  gods  for  deliverance,  which,  though 
unsurpassed  in  pathos  and  beauty,  is  even 
more  astonishing  for  its  reiterated  assertion 
of  a  dutiful  and  innocent  life.  That  Catullus 
had  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning 
we  might  allow ;  but  this  would  not  content 
him  :  he  says  and  he  believes  that  he  has 
never  sinned  at  all. 

LXXVI. 

If  there  be  happiness  that  haunts  the  thought 
In  after  days  of  loyal  service  wrought. 


40       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Faith  kept  unsullied,  hatred  of  deceit 
That  bids  high  Heaven  be  witness  to  a  cheat 
In  the  far  years,  Catullus,  you  shall  prove 
Rich  store  of  joy  from  this  unthankful  love. 
For  all  the  kindness  ever  said  or  done. 
Love's  many  gifts,  you  lavished  every  one 
To  bless  a  thankless  heart  that  scorns  the 
prize : 

Then  what  avails  you  still  should  agonise  ? 
Nay,   steal  your  heart,  retrace  your  steps 
again. 

And  cease  in  Heaven's  despite  to  suffer  pain. 
'Tis  hard  to  end  a  year-long  love  to-day  ; 
Tis  hard,  achieve  it  then  as  best  you  may  : 
This  victory  win,  this  only  safety  trust, 
Say  not  you  cannot  or  you  can— you  must. 
O  gods  !  if  you  can  pity,  if  in  the  past 
You  ever  heard  and  succoured  at  the  last. 
Look  on  my  woe,  let  innocence  avail, 
And  save  me  from  the  love,  my  bane  and 
bale. 

Which  steals  within  and  deadens  every  part, 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       41 

Murders  each  joy  and  masters  all  my  heart. 
I  pray  no  more  that  love  for  love  she  give. 
Or  chaste  (it  cannot  be)  consent  to  live  ; 
I  would  be  whole,  from  shameful  sickness 

freed, 
O  gods  !  of  loyal  love  be  this  the  meed. 


// 


Catullus  was  indeed  in  need  of  comfort,  for 
at   the  time  when  Clodia  had  first  proved 
herself  unfaithful,   far    away    in    Asia    his 
brother  had  died.     The  two  blows  had  fallen 
in  rapid  succession,  and  life  in  Rome  had 
now  little  charm  for  him  :  immediate  change 
was  necessary,  and  the  poet  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity of  going  to  Bithynia  on  the  staff  of 
the  praetor  Memmius.     It  may  have  been 
before  he  went  to  Bithynia  or  after  his  return 
that  he  wrote  the  pleading  lines  to  Cornificius, 
a  brother  poet.     Whatever  the  occasion,  it 
IS  clear  that  Catullus  was  in  need  of  com- 
fort, and  that  the  sympathy  which  he  expected 
had  been  withheld.    His  friend's  heart  must 


M 


42       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

indeed  have  been  of  stone  if  he  could  resist 
this  appeal : 

XXXVIII. 

Ill  fares  your  own  Catullus,  ill; 
Aye,  Cornificius,  in  distress 
That  daily  grows  and  hourly  still. 
And  did  you  give  (could  aught  be  less  ?) 
A  word  to  soothe  him  overworn  ? 
You  chafe  me,  slighting  love  so  fond — 
Vouchsafe  a  single  word  beyond 
Tears  of  Simonides  forlorn. 

To  the  same  time  may  perhaps  be  assigned 
the  poem  addressed  to  Quintus  Hortensius 
Ortalus,  the  great  orator,  rival  and  friend 
of  Cicero,  who  had  written,  it  seems,  to 
Catullus  urging  him  to  let  him  have  some 
verses  which  he  had  promised.  The  poet's 
answer  is  sad  enough  :  he  is  prostrate  with 
grief  at  his  brother's  death,  and  his  heart  is 
far  from  the  Muses,  yet  since  he  has  given 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       43 

his   word   he   will   send   some    versions   of 
Callimachus,  if  these  may  suffice. 


LXV. 

Since  care  unceasing  holds  me  sorrow-worn 
Far  from  the  scholar  maidens,  Ortalus, 
How  shall  the  Muses'  dainty  fruit  be  born 
From  fancies  of  a  soul  storm-shaken  thus? — 
My  brother,  'tis  but  now  the  creeping  wave 
Moistens   thy  poor   pale   feet   on   Lethe's 

strand, 
Whom,  taken  from  our  eyes,  the  whelming 

grave 
Hides  by  Rhoeteum  in  the  Trojan  land. 
No  more  to  speak  to  thee,  no  more  to 

hear 
Thy  language,  brother  mine,  than  life  more 

dear. 
See  thee  no  more :  but  what  I  can,  I  will, 
Love  thee  and  sing  and  sorrow  for  thee 

still : 


till 


44       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

So  Daulis'  bird  in  leafy  thickets  lone 
For  Itys,  murdered  Itys,  makes  her  moan. — 
Yet  out  of  such  affliction,  O  my  friend, 
These  versions  of  Callimachus  I  send, 
Lest  you  should  think  that  words  of  yours 

could  be 
Forgotten,  given  to  wandering  winds  by  me. 
Forgotten,  as  a  maiden  may  forget 
The  lover's  secret  apple-gift  she  set 
Neath  the  soft  folds  that  hide  her  bosom 

chaste. 
And   springs,  ah!   fond,  forgetful   one,  in 

haste 
To  meet  her  mother,  spilling  it,  and  lo ! 
Sudden  and  sheer  it  leaps  and  lies  below ; 
Spreads,  saddening  all  her  face,  the  tell-tale 

glow. 

The  poet  went  naturally  enough  with  the 
rest  of  the  staff  in  the  train  of  the  praetor 
Memmius,  the  unworthy  patron  to  whom 
Lucretius   dedicated   his  great   work.      He 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       45 

returned  by  himself  in  a  yacht  of  his  own, 
and  visited  the  famous  cities  on  the  coast 
of  Asia  as  far  south  as  Rhodes.  He  had 
expected,  if  we  are  to  believe  his  own  words, 
to  make  his  fortune  in  Bithynia :  if  he 
failed  in  this,  he  succeeded  at  any  rate  in 
recovering  his  spirits  and  his  health.  There 
are  few  more  buoyantly  happy  poems  than 
that  in  which  he  says  good-bye  to  Bithynia, 
when  the  winter  is  over  and  the  spring  has 
come.  The  whole  poem  is  well  worth 
quoting  : 

XLVI. 

Spring — and  the  warmth   has   thawed  the 

cold, 
Spring — and  the  March  winds  overbold, 
Lulled  to  glad  Zephyrs,  rage  no  more. 
Catullus,  leave  the  Phrygian  plain 
And  parched  Nicaea  rich  in  grain, 
Take  wing  for  Asia's  famous  shore. 
Spring  stirs  the  heart  to  roam  at  will. 


li 


46       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Spring  bids  the  feet  exultant  thrilL 
Sweet  friends  in  fellowship  from  Rome 
Who  fared,  adieu — wc  part,  to  come 
By  many  ways  and  wanderings  home. 

How  modern  it  all  is  !  What  better  words 
could  we  choose  to  express  the  thrill  of 
happiness  which  most  of  us  have  felt  when 
we  were  starting  to  visit  Italy  and  the  famous 
towns,  Verona  among  the  rest,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  spring  ?  And  not  less  happy  and 
not  less  convincing  is  the  poem  in  which,  his 
voyage  over,  he  exults  in  the  joy  of  coming 
home  ;  for  it  is  the  special  delight  of  travel, 
that  however  much  we  have  enjoyed  every 
day  and  every  hour  of  our  wanderings,  none 
the  less  the  home-coming  is  the  best  part 
of  all,  and  the  comfort  of  one's  own  room 
and  one's  own  bed  is  never  so  dearly  prized 
as  after  a  month  in  Italy  or  in  Greece.  And 
Catullus  just  returned  to  Sirmio  has  felt  this 
and  expressed  it  once  for  all. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       47 

XXXI. 

My  pearl  of  mimic  isles  and  island  eyes. 
That  in  the  liquid  lakes  or  wild  waste  seas 
Neptune  upholds  the  god  of  those  and  these. 
My  Sirmio,  is  it  true,  the  glad  surprise  ? 
And  have  I  left  Bithynia's  plains  behind. 
And  Thynia  left  to  see  you  and  be  safe  ? 
Joy  beyond  joy  to  loose  the  cares  that  chafe 
And  lay  aside  the  burden  of  the  mind  ! 
Home,  home  is  ours,  the  weary  wanderings 

o'er. 
The  bed  we  longed  for  ours,  and  rest  once 

more, 
Rich  recompense  alone  for  all  we  bore  ! 
Joy,  fairy  Sirmio,  for  your  master's  sake  : 
Joy,  waters  of  my  own  true  Lydian  lake  : 
Home  -  laughter     of    the    depths    awake, 

awake  ! 

The  poem,  apart  from  its  charm,  is  full 
of  interest,  as  the  earliest  example  of  the 
sonnet.    Calverley  saw  this  long  ago,  and 


fii 


ii 


48       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

his  version  of  it  in  Verses  and  "Translations 
is  singularly  beautiful.  I  have  purposely 
altered  the  ordinary  form  of  the  sextet  in 
the  hope  of  faithfully  reproducing  the  effect 
of  the  original,  in  which  the  last  three  lines 
are  each  separate  and  distinct,  recalling,  as 
a  friend  suggests  to  me,  three  wavelets  of 
the  Lydian  lake.  But  why  the  Lydian  lake  ? 
Here  again  Calverley,  who  renders  it  'the 
golden  mere,'  and  Calverley  alone,  has 
interpreted  the  poet  aright.  Catullus,  we 
must  remember,  had  just  returned  from 
Asia  Minor,  and  he  can  hardly  have  failed 
to  visit  the  Pactolus,  the  golden  Lydian 
stream,  and  when  he  sees  the  Lago  di  Garda 
before  him  and  realises  perhaps  more  fully 
than  ever  before  its  full  charm  and  beauty, 
he  feels  that  the  true  Lydian  waters  of  gold 
are  not  in  Asia  far  away,  but  close  to  his 
own  Sirmio  in  the  dear  Italian  lake.  One 
other  allusion  to  this  passage  is  interesting. 
Tennyson  in  his  Sirmione  poem  speaks  of 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       49 

himself  as  ^  gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter 
of  the  Garda  lake  below.  V  I  have  often 
wondered  what  meaning  he  gave  to  Lydian. 
Is  it  possible  that  the  music  of  the  waves 
suggested  to  him  soft  Lydian  measures? 
It  may  be  so:  but  I  do  not  think  that 
Catullus  intended  this.  Yet  no  one  under- 
stood Catullus  so  well  as  Tennyson  or 
loved  him  more  :  witness  his  '  tenderest  of 
Roman  poets  nineteen  hundred  years  ago.' 

On  the  outward  voyage  Catullus  had 
visited  his  brother's  grave,  and  had  written 
there  the  poem  which  is  linked  imperishably 
with  his  memory.  Certainly  many  English 
readers  who  do  not  know  Catullus  are 
familiar  with  the  words  which  consecrate 
the  "- ave  atque  vale  of  the  poet's  hopeless 
woe.'  We  may  stop,  if  we  will,  to  praise 
the  stately  march  of  the  opening  line,  or 
the  pathos  of  the  close ;  but  the  secret  of 
the  poem  lies  in  this :  Catullus  is  speaking 
from  his  heart  to  ours. 

D 


HI 

I 


50       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 


CI. 


From  land  to  land,  o'er  many  waters  borne, 
Brother,  I  come  to  these  thy  rites  forlorn. 
The  latest  gift,  the  due  of  death,  to  pay. 
The  fruitless  word  to  silent  dust  to  say. 
Since  death  has  reft  thy  living  self  from  me, 
Poor  brother,  stolen  away  so  cruelly. 
Yet  this  the  while,  which  ancient  use  decrees 
Sad  ritual  of  our  sires  for  obsequies, 
Take,  streaming  with  a  brother's  tears  that 

tell 
The  last  of  greeting,  brother,  and  farewell. 

Catullus  had  now  lost  by  death  or  estrange- 
ment his  brother,  his  mistress,  and  his  friend  ; 
but  he  had  true  friends  as  well  as  false,  and 
Licinius  Calvus  must  have  made  amends 
for  Caelius  Rufus.  All  one  long  night  the 
poet  lay  awake,  he  tells  us,  thinking  of 
Calvus,  with  whom  he  had  spent  the  happiest 
of  evenings  over  the  walnuts  and  the  wine. 
But  Catullus  shall  give  his  own  story : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       51 

L. 

Licinius,  yesterday  at  leisure 

We  filled  my  tablets  with  our  rhymes, 

Such  pretty  pastime  was  our  pleasure. 

Each  answered  each  a  thousand  times 

In  ever-changing  lyric  strain, 

Then  laughed  and  drank  and  laughed  again. 

Thence  with  the  wit  the  charm  aflame. 

Your  charm,  Licinius,  home  I  came 

Unhappy,  whom  nor  food  could  please. 

Nor  slumber  give  my  eyelids  ease. 

But  to  and  fro  deliriously 

I  turned  the  wished  dawn  to  see. 

With  you  to  talk,  with  you  to  be. 

But  when  the  limbs  that  tossed  and  tossed 

Half  dead  were  on  the  pallet  laid. 

For  you  to  learn  my  sorrow's  cost. 

My  pleasant  friend,  this  song  I  made. 

Then  be  not  overbold,  take  warning. 

Light  of  my  eyes,  nor  spurn  my  prayer, 

Lest  Nemesis  answer  scorn  with  scorning. 

Stern  goddess  :  whom  to  chafe  beware. 


52       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

All  beautiful  things,  if  we  are  to  believe 
Catullus,  were  very  dear  to  both  the  poets,  and 
certainly  one  very  ugly  man,  Caesar's  protege 
Vatinius,  was  fiercely  hated  by  both.  Calvus 
brought  him  to  trial  more  than  once,  and 
attacked  him  so  violently  that  poor  Vatinius 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  almost  involun- 
tary interruption,  ^  Am  I  to  be  condemned 
because  he  is  so  eloquent  ?  '  And  Catullus 
was  hardly  more  merciful.  Vatinius,  whom 
he  attacks  in  company  with  an  almost  un- 
known Nonius,  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
scrofulous,  but  was  good-tempered  enough 
to  make  fun  of  his  own  deformity.  He  was 
probably  unwise  to  boast  of  his  consulship 
before  being  elected,  yet  there  was  some 
justification  even  for  this,  as  Pompey  and 
Caesar  in  56  b.c.  drew  up  a  list  of  those 
who  were  to  hold  office  for  some  years  to 
come,  and  Vatinius  may  have  seen  it.  In 
any  case,  these  are  the  two  points  on  which 
Catullus  seizes — the  man's  personal   disfig- 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       53 

urement,  and  his  habit  of  swearing  by  his 
consulship.  It  is  difficult  to  see  why 
Nonius  is  introduced  into  the  epigram, 
but  perhaps  the  reason  may  be  this :  '  Car- 
buncled '  would  inevitably  suggest  Vatinius, 
but  he  is  reprieved  for  a  moment  and  might 
hope  to  have  escaped  ;  his  name  is,  however, 
reserved  for  the  end  of  the  third  line  with 
crushing  effect. 


LII. 

How  now,  Catullus  ?  die  and  end  despair  : 
Carbuncled  Nonius  holds  a  curule  chair  : 
By    office    dreamed    Vatinius    swears    the 

lie  : 
How    now,    Catullus?     end    despair    and 

die. 

It  is  worth  noticing  that  Catullus  often 
addresses  himself  as  he  does  here  ('  How  now, 
Catullus?')  when  he  is  deeply  affected,  whether 


, 


nil 


54       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

pleasure  or  indignation  be  the  moving  cause. 
And  there  is  hardly  anything  that  Catullus 
can  view  indifferently  or  dispassionately  :  he 
is  always  in  a  fever  of  love  or  hate  :  but  ugly, 
good-humoured  Vatinius  lived  to  be  consul 
after  all,  and  perhaps  forgave  Catullus,  who 
by  that  time  had  been  already  seven  years 
in  his  grave. 
\^  But  to  return  to  Calvus.  He  had  much 
in  common  with  Catullus ;  but  between  the 
two  friends  there  was  this  great  difference : 
one  had  a  wife  whom  he  dearly  loved,  and 
the  other  had  only  a  cruel  mistress.  Long 
before  the  death  of  Catullus,  Clodia  had 
fallen  very  low  indeed,  and  counted  her 
lovers  by  hundreds  ;  but  Quintilia,  the  wife 
of  Calvus,  was  dead.  Catullus,  when  he 
heard  the  sad  news,  wrote  a  few  words  of 
comfort  and  sent  them  to  his  friend  ;  and 
I  doubt  if  there  is  any  lyric  more  touching 
in  its  sorrowful  affection  than  this : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       55 


XCVI. 


If  any  solace,  any  joy  may  fall, 
Calvus,  to  silent  sepulchres  through  tears. 
When  the  lost  love  regretful  we  recall 
And  weep  the  parted  friend  of  early  years. 
Then,  sure,  Quintilia  is  not  wholly  sad. 
Untimely  lost :   your  love  has  made  her 
glad. 

But  it  is  time  to  come  to  the  famous 
marriage  song,  the  model  and  the  despair  of 
every  poet  who  has  written  an  epithalamium 
from  that  day  to  this.  It  was  sung  at  the 
marriage  of  Manlius  Torquatus  and  Vinia^ 
Aurunculeia,  both  of  whom  were  friends 
of  the  poet,  and  he  himself  is  present  to 
wish  them  happiness.  The  poem  is  a  marvel 
of  dignity  and  grace,  and  yet  it  is  Roman 
throughout  and  not  Greek.  If  a  few  words 
of  explanation  are  necessary,  it  is  not  that 
any  part  is  obscure,  for  the  whole  is  as  simple 
as  it  is  beautiful,  but  a  knowledge  of  the 


II 


I 


-If 


56       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Roman  wedding  ceremonies  is  of  course  taken 
for   granted  by  Catullus.     The  points  that 
concern  us  are  briefly  these:   The  bride  is 
almost  a  child,  perhaps  not  more  than  twelve 
years  of  age  ;  she  wears  a  white  robe  (bound 
round   the  waist  with   a  girdle  which   the 
husband  unties),  a  yellow  veil,  and  yellow 
shoes,  and  in  our  poem  the  god  of  marriage 
is  represented   as  wearing   the  same  dress. 
In  the  evening  the  bride  is  taken  with  a  show 
of  force  from  her  mother's  arms,  and,  accom- 
panied by  two  young  boys  who  hold  her 
arms  (in  the  poem  one  boy  only  is  mentioned), 
she  is  led  to  her  husband's  house.     There 
the  chorus  is  waiting  to  welcome  her;    she 
is   lifted   over    the   threshold,   met    by   her 
husband,  and,  after  the  banquet,  is  brought 
by  the  boys  to  the   brideswomen,   and    by 
them  carried  to  the  bridal  couch. 

It  may  at  first  sight  seem  strange  to  com- 
pare this  poem  with  the  45th  Psalm,  but 
any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  study 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       57 

the  two  will  see  how  striking  the  likeness 
is.  That  psalm  is,  as  is  well  known,  only  a 
marriage  song,  though  our  translation  un- 
fortunately disguises  this  by  introducing  an 
appeal  to  God  in  the  seventh  verse.  And 
the  arrangement  of  the  different  parts  in  our 
poem  and  in  the  psalm  is  almost  identically 
the  same ;  the  only  difference  being  that 
the  psalmist  praises  the  bridegroom  first 
and  then  turns  to  the  bride,  whereas  Catullus 
first  addresses  the  bride  and  afterwards  the 
bridegroom.  The  actual  words  used  are 
very  similar  in  both  cases :  compare  first  the 
psalmist's  counsel  to  the  bride  to  forget  her 
own  relations  and  worship  her  husband,  with 
the  summons  in  Catullus  to  a  new  home  and 
an  absorbing  love,  and  then  the  praise  of  the 
bridegroom  in  the  psalm,  *  fairer  than  the 
children  of  men,'  whose  lips  are  'full  of 
grace,'  with  the  welcome  which  Catullus  gives 
him  as  '  the  favourite  of  Venus,'  and  '  not 
less  beautiful  than  the  bride.'     In  both  cases 


It 


i 

I 

I 

'    1 

i 

Ml 
f 

nil 


58       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

children  are  promised  :  in  Catullus,  the  child- 
bride  is  taken  from  her  mother's  bosom,  but 
she  will  be  a  mother  herself  soon  with  a  child 
on  her  own  bosom  to  make  amends ;  and  in 
the  psalm  a  like  blessing  is  foretold  in  the 
words:  *  Instead  of  thy  fathers  thou  shalt 
have  children,  whom  thou  mayest  make 
princes  in  all  lands.' 


Lxr. 

God,  of  Urania  son. 
Haunter  of  Helicon, 
Who,  to  the  husband's  side 
Snatching  a  tender  bride, 
Hcar'st  Hymen,  Hymen,  cried  ; 

Thy  flowery  brows  around 
Marjoram  sweet  be  bound. 
Come  with  the  joy  aglow. 
Come  with  the  veil  we  know. 
Yellow  shoes,  feet  of  snow. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       59 

Come,  on  this  happy  day. 
Singing  the  marriage  lay. 
Raise  the  song  shrill  and  sweet, 
Wave  the  pine  torch,  and  beat 
Earth  with  thy  frolic  feet. 

As  by  the  Phrygian  seen, 
Venus,  Idalian  queen. 
So  Vinia  comes  to  thee, 
Manlius,  a  bride  to  be. 
Blessed  with  blessed  augury, 

Blossoming  brightly  now 
As  Asian  myrtle-bough, 
Myrtle,  the  sweet  plaything 
Which  from  the  dewy  spring 
Wood  nymphs  are  watering. 

Come  then,  we  pray  thee,  come 
From  rocky  Thespian  home. 
Come  from  Aonian  caves 
Which  with  the  falling  waves 
Cold  Aganippe  laves. 


lUiI 


i 

■  >  ■ 

I 


i 


I 


mm 


60       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Home's  mistress  homeward  call, 
Bid  the  new  love  enthral 
Thoughts  that  were  unconfined, 
^  As  ivy  tendrils  bind 
All  the  tree  close-entwined. 

You  too  the  fancy-free, 
Maidens  that  soon  shall  see 
Dawn  a  like  day,  repeat 
Hymen,  Hymen,  and  greet 
Hymen  to  music's  beat. 

So  may  he  gladly  hear. 
So  at  the  sound,  draw  near 
Unto  his  proper  deed. 
Fain  the  true  love  to  lead. 
Fain  the  true  hearts  to  speed. 

What  god  as  he  can  bless 
Lovers  in  love's  distress  ? 
First  of  the  heavenly  throng, 
Men's  prayers  to  thee  belong, 
Hymen,  Hymen  our  song. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       61 

Thee  to  their  children's  aid 
Call  failing  sires  ;   a  maid 
Loosens  for  thee  her  zone ; 
Bridegrooms  to  thee  alone 
All  fears  and  longings  own. 

Love  without  thee  is  vain. 
Lustreless  all  the  gain. 
Yet  if  thou  wilt,  'tis  fair  : 
Which  of  the  gods  may  dare 
With  Hymen  to  compare  ? 

Houses  with  sons  are  blest, 
Fathers  on  children  rest 
Only  if  thou  be  there  : 
Which  of  the  gods  may  dare 
With  Hymen  to  compare  ? 

Open  the  gate  :  'tis  she. 
Torches  are  waving,  see,      | 
Tresses  of  light,  yet  slow 
Moves  she,  and  all  aglow 
Weeps  that  she  needs  must  go. 


\ 


itti 


I 


i 


62       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Sweet,  you  have  wept  enow : 
Aurunculeia,  how 
Should  there  be  feared  by  you 
Lovelier  eyes  to  view 
Dawn  dripping  ocean  dew  ? 

Gold  feet  with  omen  fair 
Over  the  threshold  bear, 
Pass  through  the  bright  doorway- 
Only  to  thee  to-day, 
Hymen,  Hymen,  we  pray. 

Drop  the  girl's  tender  hand 
Boy  with  the  purple  band  : 
Let  the  men  claim  her  now : 
Hymen,  to  thee  we  bow. 
Hymen,  be  gracious  thou. 

Wives  that  are  aged  and  proved 
True  to  the  lords  ye  loved. 
Lay  the  sweet  girl  to  rest : 
Hymen,  thy  name  be  blest, 
Hymen,  thy  praise  confessed. 


■ 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       63 

Come  to  her  now,  for  she 
Waits  to  be  thine,  and  see 
So  sweet  a  blossom  this 
As  the  white  clematis 
Or  yellow  poppy  is. 

Haste  to  her  husband  now 
Comely  as  she,  I  vow ; 
Venus  has  held  you  dear  : 
Only  delay  not  her^  : 
Come  to  her,  night  is  near. 

Quickly  you  come  indeed, 
Venus  befriend  your  need. 
Since  what  you  will  you  dare. 
Heedless  of  whosoe'er 
Looks  on  a  love  so  fair. 

Dust  of  the  Afric  plain 
Reckon  we  grain  by  grain. 
Count  we  the  stars  that  shine  : 
Joys  that  are  thine  and  thine. 
How  shall  our  hearts  divine  ? 


M 


»  ! 


64       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Happy  be  night  and  morn. 
Soon  shall  a  babe  be  born  ; 
How  should  an  ancient  name, 
Still  to  abide  the  same, 
Lack  the  new  heir  to  fame  ? 

O  for  a  son  to  rest 
Safe  on  his  mother's  breast ! 
Outstretching  hands  so  sweet. 
Flickering  lips,  and  fleet 
Love-smile,  a  sire  to  greet. 

Father  in  son  shall  live, 
Father  to  son  shall  give 
Feature  and  form,  to  move 
Wonder  in  all,  and  prove 
Pledge  of  a  wife's  true  love. 

• 

Mother  shall  lend  him  grace, 
Sign  of  his  ancient  race, 
Such  as  the  praise  we  see 
Rest  on  thy  son  from  thee. 
Matchless  Penelope. 


i 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       65 

Close  ye  the  doors ;  away, 
Maidens,  enough  of  play  ; 
You,  that  have  youth  to  share. 
Cherish  a  love  so  fair 
Happily,  happy  pair. 

But  it  is  time  to  come  to  the  most  in- 
teresting and  the  most  famous  of  the  poet's 
contemporaries,  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  and 
Gaius  Julius  Caesar. 

Catullus  probably  brought  with  him  to 
Rome  an  introduction  to  Cicero :  Caesar  he 
had  known  before  at  Verona  as  his  father's 
friend.  It  is  difficult  not  to  feel  a  sense 
of  almost  personal  disappointment  at  the 
thought  of  what  might  have  been,  if  Catullus 
had  found,  before  meeting  Clodia,  a  woman 
who  could  have  saved  him,  as  Juliet  saved 
Romeo.  That  there  were  such  women  at 
Rome,  even  in  that  age  of  profligacy,  who 
can  doubt  ?  Cicero's  daughter,  Tulliola,  as 
he  loves  to  call  her,  using  the  tender  diminu- 


I 


l(i 


66       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

tive,  was  one  of  these.  Had  Catullus  loved 
Tullia,  two  lives  that  made  shipwreck  might 
have  been  saved,  for  Tullia  herself  was  un- 
happy enough  ;  and  though  she  died  before 
her  father,  two  of  the  three  husbands  whom 
she  married  in  rapid  succession  were  worth- 
less men.  If  only  Cicero  had  chosen  Catullus 
for  his  son-in-law,  we  should  have  lost 
Lesbia's  sparrow  and  Lesbia's  kisses,  but  we 
should  have  gained  nobler  poems  inspired  by 
a  good  woman's  love,  and  Catullus  might 
have  risen  to  Virgil's  height  instead  of  sinking 
at  times  to  the  level  of  Ovid  and  Propertius. 
But  it  was  not  to  be  :  one  poem  alone  remains 
addressed  to  Cicero,  and,  curiously  enough, 
it  is  uncertain  whether  it  was  written  in  irony 
or  in  genuine  gratitude.  The  words  are 
these : 

XLIX. 

Mark  Tully,  in  the  long  descent 
From  Romulus,  most  eloquent 


V 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       67 

Of  all  that  are  or  once  have  been 
Or  shall  in  other  years  be  seen, 
The  last  in  all  the  poet  ranks, 
Catullus  pays  you  hearty  thanks. 
Of  poets  all  the  last,  as  far 
As  you  the  first  of  pleaders  are. 

The  reasons  generally  given  for  believing  the 
poem  to  be  ironical  are  these.  Cicero,  it  has 
been  suggested,  in  his  defence  of  Vatinius 
alluded  to  his  client's  enemies,  Calvus  and 
Catullus,  as  bad  poets  or  the  worst  of  poets, 
and  Catullus  accepted  the  challenge.  Cicero 
IS  so  far  the  best  of  advocates  as  he  is  the 
worst  of  poets ;  but  if  he  should  prove  to  be 
the  best  of  poets,  it  is  obvious  that  Cicero 
will  sink  in  the  scale  as  Catullus  rises.  Yet 
on  the  whole  it  seems  safer  to  suppose  that 
Catullus  means  what  he  says  when  he  acknow- 
ledges his  gratitude  to  Cicero,  first,  because 
when  he  insults  an  enemy  he  does  not  usually 
leave  his  meaning  doubtful,  and  secondly, 


Ill 


68       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

because  he  would  not  be  likely  to  attack  Cicero 
in  the  one  point  where  he  was  obviously 
unassailable.  Cicero  the  worst  of  pleaders  ? 
If  so,  Caesar  might  be  called  the  worst  of 
generals  ;  yet  Catullus  said  everything  bad 
of  Caesar,  but  not  that. 

When  Catullus  hated  he  hated  with  his 
whole  soul ;  and  he  acted  with  a  consistency 
which  perhaps  no  one  before  or  since  has 
ever  equalled,  on  the  principle  that  all  is  fair 
in  love  and  war.  And  so  shamelessly  and 
ceaselessly  he  pelted  with  mud  the  greatest 
of  the  Romans;  and  Caesar,  who  was  too 
wise  to  undervalue  the  effect  of  the  words 
of  a  great  poet,  paid  him  the  compli- 
ment of  being  wounded  by  his  attacks,  and 
then  forgave  him.  We  admire  the  wisdom 
and  condescension  of  Caesar,  who  wished  to 
be  reconciled  to  Catullus  ;  yet  it  is  difficult 
not  to  feel  some  sort  of  respect  for  the 
courage  of  the  poet  who  could  write  : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       69 

XCIII. 

Not  overmuch  I  care, 
Caesar,  your  friend  to  be ; 
You  may  be  dark  or  fair, 
I  never  looked  to  see. 

Catullus  *  never  looked  to  see,'  and  yet,  nine- 
teen hundred  years  after  the  death  of  Caesar, 
we  care  so  much.  '  His  eyes  were  dark  and 
piercing,'  says  Suetonius, '  and  his  complexion 
fair,'  and  because  he  gives  us  details  about 
Caesar  such  as  these  Suetonius  is  still  read 
and  valued  to-day.  But  Catullus  had  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,  and  we  cannot 
help  admiring  the  astonishing  impudence 
which  stands  in  such  welcome  contrast  to  the 
servility  of  the  next  generation.  For  within 
thirty  years  from  this  time,  even  Virgil,  *  the 
chastest  poet  and  royalest  that  to  the  memory 
of  man  is  known,*  addressed  Augustus  as  a 
god,  suggesting  that  Neptune  would  be  will- 
ing to  resign  in  his  favour  the  empire  of  the 


70       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

• 

seas  ;  while  Horace,  for  all  his  sturdy  inde- 
pendence of  character,  sang  of  him  enthroned 
between  Pollux  and  Hercules,  drinking  nectar 
with  rosy  mouth,  and  it  never  seems  *to  have 
occurred  to  any  Roman  that  the  court  poets 
were  making  the  emperor  ridiculous.  Their 
predictions  were,  however,  almost  literally 
fulfilled  by  the  criminal  lunatic  Caligula, 
who  drove  across  the  bay  of  Baiae  on  a  cause- 
way made  for  the  purpose,  and  offered  him- 
self to  be  worshipped  by  his  subjects  as  he 
stood  in  the  temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux, 
embracing  with  one  arm  the  statue  of  either 
god.  Catullus  misjudged  and  insulted  Caesar, 
but  he  did  not  succeed  in  making  him  ridi- 
culous :  Caesar  understood  the  poet,  and 
pardoned  him.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that 
Catullus  is  said  to  have  asked  to  be  forgiven  ; 
but  the  epithet  *  great '  which  he  gives  to 
Caesar  in  one  of  the  latest  of  his  poems  is 
the  sole  evidence  they  furnish  of  the  poet's 
repentance. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       li 

To  the  year  55  b.c.  belongs  the  exquisite 
love-poem,  'Acme  and  Septimius.'     'At  the 
moment  when  the  poem  was  written,'  says 
Munro,  'Caesar  was  invading  Britain,  and 
Crassus  was   off  partant  pour   la   Syrie  to 
annihilate    the    Parthians';    and    Professor 
Ellis  reminds  us  that  in  the  same  year  the 
'  glare  of  the  lion'  became  familiar  at  Rome, 
since  no  fewer  than  six  hundred  were  ex- 
hibited at  the  famous  games,  when  the  sight 
of  the  wounded  elephants  made  so  deep  an 
impression  on  the  spectators  that  they  rose 
to  their  feet  in  tears  and  cursed  Pompey. 
But  Septimius  recks  little  of  the  triumphs 
and  the  shows  of  the  triumvirs,  with  Acme 
in   his  arms;    and   Acme   has   no  thought 
beyond  her  boy  lover. 


XLV. 


Septimius  unto  Acme  laid, 

The  loved  one,  on  his  bosom,  said 


♦ 


72       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

'  My  Acme,  if  I  be  not  lost 
In  sheer  devotion,  if  I  falter 
In  thought  of  love,  nor  time  can  alter, 
Nor  he  surpass  who  loves  the  most, 
May  I  alone  in  Libya  bare 
Or  Ind  confront  a  lion's  glare.' 
The  lover  spoke  :  left  sentinel. 
Love    rightward    sneezed    that    all   was 
well. 

But  Acme  softly  turned  her  head. 
The  sweet  boy's  eyes  love-deluged 
Kissed  with  the  shining  lips,  and  said, 
'  Scptimius,  all  my  life's  desire, 
So  serve  we  this  one  lord  for  ever. 
As  stronger,  fiercer  far  the  fever 
Consumes  this  melting  heart  with  fire.' 
She  spoke  :  again,  left  sentinel, 
Love  rightward  sneezed  that  all  was  well. 
Oh  !  happy  augury  of  bliss. 
His  heart  is  hers,  and  hers  is  his. 
Septimius  all  the  world  refuses, 
Fond  boy,  and  Acme  only  chooses  : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       73 

Septimius  only  Acme  treasures. 

True  heart,  for  all  desires  and  pleasures : 

Were  ever  mortals  happier  seen. 

Or  Venus  wearing  fairer  mien  ? 


The  poem  is  irresistible  as  the  glorification 
of  a  light,  sensuous  love  :  but  is  this  all  ? 
Has  the  tenderest  of  Roman  poets  no  other, 
no  higher  message  to  give  than  this  ?  Is 
the  mission  of  woman  only  to  delight,  and 
never  to  raise  and  ennoble  the  man  she  loves, 
so  that  he  shall  be  capable  of  devotion  and 
self-sacrifice?  It  is  clear  that  Catullus  no 
longer  dreams  of  such  possibilities,  and  the 
reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  Could  Clodia 
teach  him  self-denial  ^  Could  she  inspire  a 
chivalrous  love  ?  Some  women  might  have 
saved  him  and  shown  him  the  truth :  there 
were  such  wives  in  Rome.  But  married 
happiness  was  not  destined  for  Catullus,  and 
so  the  poet  of  love  died,  and  left  us  no  record 
of  any   woman    whom    we   can   reverence. 


in 


111 ' 

I! 


74       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Instead  of  the  soft  radiance  that  clings  like 
a  halo  to  Virgil's  heroine,  the  warrior  maid 
Camilla,  burns  the  baleful  light  of  Clodia's 
insolent  beauty,  which  drew  Catullus  like 
a  moth  to  the  flame. 

The  end  was  not  far  ofF  now.  Catullus, 
reconciled  to  Caesar,  had  become  a  person 
of  some  importance  at  Rome  ;  and  Clodia, 
who  perhaps  dreamed  of  fascinating  the 
triumvirs,  and  still  aspired  to  influence  the 
politics  of  the  world,  seems  to  have  made 
advances,  through  the  mediation  of  Furius 
and  Aurelius,  to  her  former  lover.  Her 
messengers  were  ill  chosen,  though  nominally 
friends  of  Catullus,  with  whom  they  pro- 
fessed to  be  willing  to  go  anywhere,  to 
venture  anything.  The  poet  understood 
the  worth  of  their  professions,  and  the  reason 
why  Clodia  had  sent  them.  Again  we  are 
reminded  of  Shakespeare.  *  Why  look  you 
now,*  says  Hamlet  to  his  'excellent  good 
friends,'  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  who 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       75 

have  been  sent  by  the  king  to  discover  the 
cause  of  his  affliction, '  how  unworthy  a  thing 
you  make  of  me  !     You  would  play  upon 
me  ;   you  would  seem  to  know  my  stops.  .  .  . 
'S  blood,  do  you  think  I  am  easier  to   be 
played    on   than   a   pipe?      Call    me   what 
instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  me, 
yet  you  cannot   play  upon  me.'^     Clodia's 
messengers    are    not    more   successful,   and 
Catullus,    after    quoting    with    unconcealed 
contempt  their  promises  of  heroic  devotion, 
sends  them  away  on  a  slight  errand  to  do 
dishonour  to  Clodia.     And  this  is  the  last 
message     they    are     to     carry    from     him 
to  her. 

XI. 

Furius,  and  you,  Aurelius,  who  have  vowed 
To  follow  fearless,  though  Catullus  reach 
Far  India  ringed  with  Eastern  surge  and 

loud 

With  roaring  beach, 


76       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

Or  languid  Arabs  or  Hyrcanians  brave, 
Sacae  or  Parthians  ever  bearing  bows. 
Or  where  the  Nile  incarnadines  the  wave 
And  sevenfold  flows  ; 

Or  scale  afoot  the  lofty  Alpine  bar, 
Viewing  the  realms  that  Caesar's  greatness 

tell, 
Gaul  and  the  Rhine  and  angry  seas  afar 
Where  Britons  dwell ; — 

Oh  !  you  resolved  all  this  with  me  to  bear, 
And  what  the  gods  may  will  in  other  days, 
A  little  message  to  my  lady  bear, 
No  gentle  phrase. 

Bid   her   live   on,  thrive   still  with  all  her 

train, 
Enfold  her  hundred  minions  and  enthral, 
Loving  none  truly,  though    at   whiles  she 

drain 

The  lives  of  all : 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       77 

Nor  let  her  look  to  find  my  love  is  there. 
Which  now  through  sin  of  hers  is  fallen 

indeed. 
As  some  lone  flower  touched  by  the  passing 

share 

That  skirts  the  mead. 

Is  there  any  contrast  in  all  literature  more 
wonderful  than  the  change  from  fierceness 
to  tenderness  in  the  last  two  stanzas  ? 

The  reference  to  the  conquest  of  Britain 
among  Caesar's  victories  makes  it  almost 
certain  that  this  poem  was  not  written  before 
54  B.C.,  and  probably  in  the  course  of  this 
year  the  poet  died.  It  is  therefore  possible 
that  in  this  farewell  to  Lesbia  we  have  the 
last  words  of  Catullus. 

It  remains  only  to  say  something  of  the 
poet's  character,  and  to  give  some  estimate 
of  his  poetry.  Was  Catullus  a  bad  man 
judged  by  the  standard  of  his  age?  We 
shall  not  say  so  if  we  trust  his  own  evidence. 


78       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

*  The  poet's  life,'  he  says,  '  must  be  chaste, 
not  his  poems.'  It  is  true  that  Ovid  and 
Martial,  both  notoriously  bad  men,  said  the 
same  thing,  but  they  could  not  have  expected 
to  be  believed  :  they  said  it  because  it  was 
the  conventional  thing  for  a  poet  to  say, 
because  Catullus,  whom  they  both  loved  and 
imitated,  had  said  it  before  them.  But 
Catullus  never  did  or  said  anything  because 
it  was  conventional  :  and  if  he  asserted  his 
life  to  be  pure  he  must  have  believed  it  to 
be  so.  Purity,  as  understood  by  the  poet 
and  his  contemporaries,  would  sanction  much 
which  we  condemn  as  impure.  But  men  must 
be  judged  by  the  standard  of  their  own 
generation,  and  with  this  reservation  we  may 
accept  the  assertion  of  Catullus  as  the  truth. 
In  any  case,  we  cannot  admit  his  verses 
as  evidence  against  the  character  of  others. 
Outrageous  language  was  the  fashion  then, 
and  if  even  Cicero,  the  model  of  propriety. 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       79 

never  hesitated  to  use  it,  what  else  could  we 
expect  from  Catullus  ? 

And  when  we  pass  from  words  to  deeds, 
we  recognise  in  him  a  poet  richly  dowered 
with  the  gifts  of  love  and  hate:  a  loyal 
friend  and  faithful  lover,  a  true  patriot 
and  fearless  enemy  of  those  whom  he  re- 
garded, rightly  or  wrongly,  as  the  enemies 
of  the  State — a  man  for  whom,  in  spite  of 
all  his  faults,  we  can  still  feel  sympathy 
and  affection.  But  the  words  in  which 
he  sums  up  the  story  of  his  love  for 
Lesbia  are  still,  when  all  is  said,  his  best 
defence  : 

LXXXVII. 

Was  never  one  could  say,  so  loved  was 

she 
As,  Lesbia,  thou  by  me  : 
Was  never  heart  to  covenant  so  true 
As  mine  to  love  of  you. 


8o       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

What  place  are  we  to  assign  to  Catullus 
among  the  poets  ?  We  must  recognise  the 
narrowness  of  his  range,  the  absence  of  high 
ideals,  the  triviality  of  his  themes,  which 
exclude  him  from  a  place  among  the  greatest 
writers  of  the  world.  Yet  for  all  this  there 
is  no  love-poetry  like  his  till  we  come  to 
Romeo  and  Juliet^  and  there  has  been  nothing 
I  since  to  rival  it,  not  even  Mrs.  Browning's 
sonnets  and  Tennyson's  Maud,  Shakespeare, 
who,  far  more  than  Sophocles,  *saw  life 
steadily  and  saw  it  whole,'  and  Catullus,  who 
saw  but  a  single  side,  alone  attain  perfection 
here,  because  they  alone  are  absolutely  true. 
We  can  pick  out  the  beautiful  points  in 
other  poems,  and  praise  them  as  Catullus 
praises  Quintia,  *  fair,  and  straight,  and  tall,' 
but  when  we  read,  ^It  is  my  soul  that 
calls  upon  my  name,'  or  *  My  light,  be- 
cause you  live,  my  life  is  sweet,'  we  feel 
that  criticism  is  impossible  and  praise  imper- 
tinent.    And  Shakespeare  certainly  reminds 


THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS       8i 

us  of  Catullus,  not  only  in  great  single  lines 
such  as, 

*  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,' 

which  is  almost  identical  with 

*  This  day,  and  that,  and  the  next,  and  the 

next,' 

and  gives  the  same  vista  of  futurity,  but  in 
whole  passages,  as,  for  example,  where  Troilus 
and  Cressida  vie  with  one  another  in  pro- 
tests of  love,  which  recall  at  once  the 
passionate  vows  of  Acme  and  Septimius. 
Therefore,  if  love-poetry  is  to  be  read  at 
all — and  the  world  would  be  immeasurably 
poorer  for  the  loss  of  it,  whatever  'elder, 
sourer  men'  may  say — it  is  to  Shake- 
speare and  Catullus,  above  all  others,  that 
lovers  will  always  turn,  because  they  alone 
convince  us  that  as  they  have  written  *so 
should  such  things  be.'  We  need  not  question 
Virgil's  pre-eminence  among  Roman  authors. 


X 


82       THE  STORY  OF  CATULLUS 

and  even  he  would  hardly  rank  higher  than 
sixth  among  the  poets  of  the  world  ;  yet  as 
some  of  those  who  acknowledge  Shakespeare's 
*  indivisible  supremacy  *  give  to  Christina 
Rossetti  a  love  which  even  the  greatest  can- 
not command,  so,  without  injustice  to  Virgil, 
without  disloyalty  to  Keats  and  Shelley,  we 
may  keep  for  wayward,  passionate  Catullus 
a  place  apart  in  our  hearts. 


HADRIAN'S  LAST  WORDS 

Wayful,  playful  spirit-thing. 
Body's  guest  and  comrade,  say 
Whither  wilt  thou  fare  to-day, 

Blanched  and  bare  and  shuddering, 
Quite  forgetting  all  thy  play? 


.'lit 


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LYTTELTON,  THE  HON.  MRS.  NEVILLE, 
and  WARD,  MRS.  HUMPHR  K 

JOUBERT:  A  Selection  from  his  Thoughts. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Lyttelton,  with  a  Preface 
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Messrs.  Duckworth  &  Co.  have  pleasure  in  announcing  the 
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the  Hon.  Mrs.  Neville  Lyttelton,  with  a  Preface  by  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward. 

Of  Joubert  (1754-1824)  Matthew  Arnold  {Essays  in  Criticism, 
First  Series)  spoke  thus : — *  With  Joubert,  the  striving  after  a 
consummate  and  attractive  clearness  of  expression  came  from  no 
mere  frivolous  dislike  of  labour  and  inability  for  going  deep,  but 
was  a  part  of  his  native  love  of  truth  and  perfection.  The  delight 
of  his  life  he  found  in  truth,  and  in  the  satisfaction  which  the 
enjoying  of  truth  gives  to  the  spirit ;  and  he  thought  the  truth 
was  never  really  and  worthily  said  so  long  as  the  least  cloud, 
clumsiness,  and  repulsiveness  hung  about  the  expression  of  it.  .  .  . 
He  is  the  most  prepossessing  and  convincing  of  witnesses  to  the 
good  of  loving  light.  Because  he  sincerely  loved  light,  and  did 
not  prefer  to  it  any  little  private  darkness  of  his  own,  he  found 
light ;  his  eye  was  single,  and  therefore  his  whole  body  was  full  of 
light.  And  because  he  was  fult  of  light,  he  was  also  full  of 
happiness.  In  spite  of  his  infirmities,  in  spite  of  his  sufferings,  in 
spite  of  his  obscurity,  he  was  the  happiest  man  alive ;  his  life  was 
as  charming  as  his  thoughts.' 


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HUTCHINSON,  T. 

LYRICAL  BALLADS  BY  WILLIAM  WORDS- 
WORTH    AND    S.    T.    COLERIDGE,    1798. 

Edited  with  certain  poems  of  1798  and  an  Introduction 
and  Notes  by  Thomas  Hutchinson,  of  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  Editor  of  the  Clarendon  Press  "  Wordsworth," 
etc.     Fcap.  8vo,  art  vellum,  gilt  top.     3s.  6d.  net. 

This  edition  reproduces  the  text,  spelling,  punctuation,  etc.,  of  1798,  and  gives  in  an 
Appendix  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell  (original  text,  now  repVinted  for  the  first  time),  and 
Coleridge's  Lewti,  The  Three  Graves^  and  The  Wanderings  of  Cain.  It  also  contains 
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announcements  concerning  which  will  be  made  in  due  course.  It  is  not  intended  to 
include  in  this  series,  as  a  rule,  the  oft-reprinted  "  classics,"  of  which  there  are  already 
sufficiently  desirable  issues. 

AthenSBUm  (4  col.  review). — "  Mr  Hutchinson's  centenary  edition  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  is  not  a  mere  reprint,  for  it  is  enriched  with  a  preface  and  notes  which  make  it 
a  new  book.  The  preface  contains  much  that  is  suggestive  in  explaining  the  history 
and  elucidating  the  meaning  of  this  famous  little  volume.  Mr  Hutchinson's  notes  are 
especially  deserving  of  praise." 

St  James's  Gazette. — "  '  Lyrical  Ballads'  was  published  September  i,  1798.  By  a 
happy  thought  this  centenary  is  in  anticipation  very  fitly  celebrated — without  fuss  er 
futilities — by  the  publication  of  an  admirable  reprint  of  '  Lyrical  Ballads,'  with  an 
adequate  '  apparatus  criticus  *  by  Mr  T.  Hutchinson,  the  well-known  Wordsworthian 
scholar,  whose  name  makes  recommendation  superfluous.  This  is  a  book  that  no 
library  should  be  without — not  the  'gentleman's  library'  of  Charles  Lamb's  sarcasm, 
but  any  library  where  literature  is  respected." 

Notes  and  Queries.—"  The  book  is  indeed  a  precious  boon.  Mr  Hutchinson  is  in 
his  line  one  of  the  foremost  of  scholars,  and  his  introduction  is  a  commendable  piece  of 
work.  No  less  excellent  are  his  notes,  which  are  both  readable  and  helpful.  One  can- 
not do  otherwise  than  rejoice  in  the  possession  of  the  original  text,  now  faithfully 
reproduced.  A  volume  which  is  sure  of  a  place  in  the  library  of  every  lover  of 
poetry." 

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present  volume,  for  which  Mr  Hutchinson  has  written  not  only  a  very  informing  intro- 
duction, but  also  some  very  luminous  and  useful  notes-  The  book  is  one  which  every 
lover  and  student  of  poetry  must  needs  add  to  his  collectioci." 


Messrs  Duckworth  &  Co's  New  Books, 


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STEPHEN,  LESLIE. 

STUDIES  OF  A  BIOGRAPHER,  by  Leslie  Stephen. 
Two  vols,  large  crown  8vo.     Buckram,  gilt  top,  12  s. 

Times.—"  No  living  man  is  more  at  home  than  he  in  the  literature  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  few,  if  any,  have  a  better  right  to  speak  about  the  literary  performances 
and  influences  of  the  nineteenth." 

Athdnsum.— "  Those  who  are  prepared  to  learn  rather  than  be  amused  or  excited 
cannot  do  better  than  study  his  '  Studies.'  He  is  one  of  the  soundest  of  our  critics.  His 
cool  shrewd  judgment  is  often  refreshing  as  a  contrast  to  the  tall  talk  which  has  been 
only  too  common  with  modern  biographers." 

Morning  Post.— "He  is  as  lucid  as  Macaulay  without  sacrificing  accuracy  to 
^ect." 

Daily  Clironicle.— "  Learning,  sense,  human  urbanity  and  critical  insight,  these  are 
only  a  few  of  the  qualities  Mr  Stephen  displays.  He  always  writes  with  ease  and 
felicity,  and  is  as  incapable  of  vulgarism  as  of  an  affectation.  It  is  only  when  we  pause 
to  reflect  at  the  end  of  a  paragraph  or  essay  that  we  recognise  how  smoothly  and 
delightfully  we  have  been  carried  along." 

Globe.—"  His  '  Studies  of  a  Biographer  *  will  be  received  cordially  and  gratefully, 
and  ranged  side  by  side  with  his  '  Hours  in  a  Library,"  with  which  they  are  more  than 
worthy  to  be  associated." 

ArtllUr  Symons  in  the  Saturday  Review.—"  Who  is  there,  at  the  present  day, 
now  writing  in  English,  who  is  capable  of  such  acute,  learned,  unacademic,  serious, 
witty,  responsible  criticism  as  that  contained  in  these  two  volumes  ?  Mr  Leslie  Stephen 
is  not  only  a  critic,  he  is  a  philosophic  thinker,  and,  since  the  death  of  Coventry 
Patmore,  I  do  not  know  any  other  writer  of  criticism  whom  it  would  be  possible  to  call 
by  that  name." 

Truth.— "Will  maintain  Mr  Leslie  Stephen's  reputation  as  indisputably  the  first  of 
living  English  critics." 

Outlook.— "Every  serious  student  must  really  go  to  the  book  itself.  There  is  no 
better  example  of  fair,  instructed,  well-balanced,  and  judiciously  expressed  criticism  in 
the  English  literature  of  the  present  day." 


The  titles  of  the  *•  Studies  **  are  as  follows : — 

VOL.  I. 

NATIONAL  BIOGRAPHY. 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EDITORS. 

JOHN  BYROM. 

JOHNSONIANA. 

gibbon's  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

arthur  young. 
Wordsworth's  youth. 


VOL.  II. 

the  story  of  scott's  ruin. 

the  importation  of  GERMAN. 

matthew  arnold, 
jowett's  life, 
oliver  wendell  holmes, 
life  of  tennyson. 

PASCAL. 


OLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 


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